


Cocktail Umbrella

by dawnperhaps



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-06 00:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnperhaps/pseuds/dawnperhaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has always been happy with his home catering business, but when that stops paying the bills, he has to accept a job as a pastry chef in a local restaurant.  At least the waiter is cute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cocktail Umbrella

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for Liz, who gave me this prompt: “I was thinking AU, college or work-themed, Sam meets Gabriel - confident, playful Gabriel - for the first time. And instead of the usual Gabriel wooing Sam, Sam has the crush first, moves first. Besides that, you can do whatever you’d like with it!” There are a few liberties taken with the operation of the restaurant. I’ve personally never worked in a kitchen, so I apologize for all inaccuracies and exaggerations.

Sam has always been happy with his home catering business.  He doesn’t make too much money and he isn’t horribly well-known, but he prides himself on a long list of very satisfied customers, some of whom still stop by his house from time to time asking for recipes and offering to buy any batches of treats he has lying around.  He knew baking for a living wasn’t going to be the most glamorous of jobs, but he likes making people happy, seeing their pleased faces and hearing their happy noises as they bite into his desserts.  Home catering allows him a lot of creative freedom, a lot of interaction with his customers, and it pays the bills.  Or, at least, it did pay the bills, for a little while.  But as the economy starts the spiral, Sam finds himself with less and less regular customers, until, one day, his power goes out and he finds himself filling out job applications.

The kitchen at his new restaurant job is different to say the least.  It’s a mess of prep work and shouting and Sam is immediately disheartened.  He’s never worked at a restaurant.  He’s never even worked with other people outside of pastry school.  The other chefs don’t even spare him a glance when he walks into the space, too busy preparing for dinner and screaming at each other about everything and nothing.  He’s very grateful when the manager appears and explains that the bakery and dessert preparation area is elsewhere, leading Sam up a narrow flight of stairs.

The manager’s name is Michael, who is a friendly but serious young man, not very much older than Sam.  As he brings Sam up to the bakery and introduces him to his temperature-controlled work space, he describes the restaurant by saying, “We aren’t very well known for our desserts, but we promise quality in everything we do.”  Sam doesn’t really like the sound of that, but the bakery is nice, large and spacious with shiny ovens and a big walk-in freezer, and he knew he wasn’t going to have top-notch job opportunities when he decided to pursue his dreams and go to pastry school in the first place.  He smiles and nods when Michael promises to be available whenever Sam needs him, but the way the man sprints away the second Sam turns to go to work indicates that he’s probably far too busy for that to be true.

Sam starts to feel a little better as he does his preparations for his shift.  The kitchen sounds noisy beneath him, but Sam turns on some music and buries himself in the process of rolling out pastry dough and filling his stand mixers with different sorts of creams and fillings.  The menu he’d been shown during the interview is painfully basic – New York style cheesecake, chocolate layer cake, bread pudding, three different kinds of ice cream, and a seasonal key lime pie – but Sam makes a mean key lime pie, so he can’t say he’s completely disappointed.  He checks the clock every ten minutes, slightly nervous about getting down to his station on time, but he finishes preparations early enough to lean against the fridge and chug some (thankfully caffeinated) soda before loading up a cart that he hopes he can manage to get down the stairs.

However, the calm mood he manages to bring about through baking and his collection of indie rock dissipates the second service starts.  The kitchen is loud and chaotic, nothing like Sam’s humble little kitchen at home.  And the head chef is a terror, constantly on everyone else’s case, but most especially Sam’s.  Sam assumes all the shouting and throwing of utensils means he’s being hazed, but the shouting makes his shoulders tense and all his nerves feel exposed.

“How long does it take to slice a pie?” the executive chef shouts from his station, waving around a fish spatula like it’s a gravel.  “I can see your stack of tickets from here!  Isn’t the pie already made?  Put it on the fucking plates!”

Sam already has the pie on the plates, all four pieces, not the Lucifer is close enough to notice that, but he feels something in him crack and crumble, frustrated with restaurant service, with the menu, and with himself for not being able to hang in this environment.  He really needs this job, but he can already see himself resigning after work, not wanting to work another second with this asshole of an executive chef.

“Hey, Luci!” comes a voice from through the metal shelving.  Sam practically jumps out of his skin at the sound, so aware of shouting now that he’s spent the entire evening being shouted at.  But when Sam looks up, he only finds a lone waiter in front of his station, most likely the one who ordered the four key lime pies.  The waiter is glaring over at the main station, fixing the chef with a look that Sam would never dare to give him, but Sam is quickly distracted from the waiter’s facial expression by the waiter’s _face_.  For the next few moments, Sam is just completely _struck_ by just how perfectly this guy fits into his type.  He’s short – _he’s so short_ – but Sam has a thing for shorter guys, just because he likes being able to enfold someone in his arms, lead when he’s dancing with someone, or anchor someone against a wall.  Sam is so tall that dating someone taller than him would just throw him off balance.  This waiter also has the most gorgeous eyes Sam has ever seen, strangely amber, like he has a few too many golden flecks caught in them.  His hair is slicked back for work, but Sam can tell it’s on the longer side, the right length for fingers to card through.  Simply put, he’s an attractive individual.  Sam’s really glad this angel isn’t talking to him because he isn’t sure he remembers how to use his vocal cords.

“Why don’t you shut up and cook, huh?  I called for my entrées fifteen minutes ago,” the waiter continues, easily and expertly loading his tray with Sam’s key lime pies.  He offers Sam an exasperated glance that Sam doesn’t have the cognitive ability to return, opening and closing his mouth as he tries to find an adequate response.

The chef glowers at the waiter, the red glow of heat lamp making him look positively demonic.  “Watch your tone, Gabriel,” he advises darkly, turning back to the piece of fish in his pan.  Sam feels a shudder crawl up his spine, but the waiter seems undeterred, placing his free hand on his hip and raising an eyebrow at the cook.

“I’ll start watching my tone when you start watching your ticket printer,” the blonde replies flippantly.  Sam is reduced to gaping at him, torn between being grateful and horrified.  When the waiter turns back to Sam and places the last slice of pie on his tray, he smiles the most charming smile Sam has seen in months and leans closer to Sam’s station, his smile morphing into a smirk.

“Don’t listen to that asshole,” he says quietly, just so Sam can hear it.  “He’s just pissed he hasn’t gotten laid in a month.”

Sam doesn’t even ask how this waiter could possibly know something like that, but he doesn’t get the chance to ask before the waiter turns away, heading back towards the door to the dining room with a perfectly balanced tray of pie.

“Nothing but rave reviews on your desserts tonight, by the way!” the waiter shouts before he gets to the door, loud enough for the entire kitchen to hear.  “Thanks for the padding on my tips!”

The guy next to him slugs him in the shoulder in congratulations and Sam manages to give him a lopsided grin, staring after the waiter.

‘Gabriel,’ he reminds himself, remembering the chef’s words and still smiling when he returns his attention to the cheesecake he’d been decorating with berries.  And maybe Sam falls too easy, but he thinks he’s a bit smitten.

Sam has a bunch of tickets staring at him when Gabriel comes back in and pulls on his sleeve of his chef’s coat, insisting a customer wants to speak with him, but Sam follows anyway, grinning sort of stupidly and taking the opportunity to admire the gold flecks in Gabriel’s eyes.  There are definitely a few too many, but it suits him.  The customer asks for one of Sam’s recipes and he politely informs her that it’s a secret, but he has to laugh when Gabriel promises to get it out of him somehow, like they’re friends, like Gabriel likes him.  He goes back to his station feeling light and happy despite the pile up of orders he now has, and he barely stops himself from asking Gabriel to drinks sometime.  Instead, he makes all of Gabriel’s desserts first, preening a little more when Gabriel praises him for his quick service.  If the other waiters look confused about their longer waits, he doesn’t let him bother him.

By the time service is over, Sam is thoroughly exhausted, but not completely downtrodden.  In fact, the adrenaline is still pumping in his veins, the little extra boost he needed to keep up with the heavy flow of orders throughout the night.  He had to 86 the key lime pie, but the waiters all reported that the customers were delighted with the raspberry tarts they were served in place of the pie.  It’s one of the treats Sam knows how to make quickly and, upon seeing the frozen mini pie crusts in the freezer, he decided to improvise.  He had expected fury when the manager came storming up to his station, so Sam had been shocked when Michael asked if they could add raspberry tarts to the dessert menu.  After his shift ends, Sam mentions a two-tone chocolate mousse and a mango cheesecake with a lemon basil syrup, two of his personal favorites, and the manager looks intrigued.

“Let’s talk about reworking this menu,” Michael says thoughtfully, and actually laughs when Sam beams.

Sam takes his time cleaning his station and even does another inspection after he clocks out, making sure he remembers to bring all the extra berries and pastry cream back up to his bakery.  He finds his mind wandering back to the waiter, the one whose presence seemed to turn his night around, the one who seemed to know the exact words Sam needed to hear to get his composure back.  He’s still thinking about him when he leaves the kitchen well after closing time.  He’d thought he was the last to leave, which is why he’s shocked to find Gabriel still in the restaurant, having a conversation at the bar.  Sam doesn’t know what makes him do it, but he finds himself hovering in the shadowy area between the kitchen doors and the server’s station, hidden from sight but well within earshot.  He immediately feels awful for spying, but curiosity wins over.

Gabriel is perched on a stool with a cocktail in his hand, leaning heavily against the bar.  Sam expects to see the bartender polishing glasses and listening to the waiter’s problems, but the tall, lanky man is pouring himself a double shot of something clear and seems to be the one doing all the talking while Gabriel throws his very fruity looking drink back in one gulp.

“In any case, I hardly see how it’s any of Michael’s business, restaurant policy violation or not,” the bartender says, turning away from the bar to grab a bottle of vodka off the shelf.  He has an accent that might be French and an attitude that most definitely is.  “It’s not as if he has to watch the two of you fucking.”

“I mentioned one roadblock.  I didn’t say there weren’t more,” Gabriel replies.  He plucks the umbrella out of his now empty glass and twirls it between his fingers, a melancholic look touching his expression for a quick moment.  It disappears as he reaches up to loosen his tie, grunting when it resists.

“Well, I’ll have you know that I’ve been ‘involved’ with several other restaurant staff members in my time here,” the bartender tells him, notes of pride and nostalgia in his voice.  “And I’ve yet to be fired.”

“Yeah, trust me, we’re all very well aware of that,” Gabriel says wryly.  When the bartender inverts the bottle of Belvedere over Gabriel’s glass, the waiter groans.  “You know, Balthazar, I’m still planning on driving home.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be equal parts grenadine and orange juice,” the bartender – Balthazar – sighs, like it’s a shame.  He looks down his nose at the shorter man when he adds, “God forbid you put something in your body that doesn’t ensure diabetes.”

“Waiting tables causes a serious drop in my blood sugar,” Gabriel argues, but Balthazar just rolls his eyes and adds a thick red syrup to the vodka, his fingers finding their way around his shot glass.  They toast, their drinks looking almost comical next to one another, but neither glass stays full much longer anyway.  Gabriel’s smile is weaker than before, looking a little out of place on the confident, bold young man Sam first saw in front of his station.  Sam likes confidence and a good sense of humor, but he likes depth even more, and that little smile draws him in even more than the smirk had.  He finds his uneasiness about eavesdropping melting away, and he leans against the wall and gets comfortable.

“He’s probably dating a real estate agent or something fancy like that,” Gabriel finally says with a sigh that is only partially exaggerated.  “Or, you know.  A woman.”

“Real estate agents don’t make money anymore,” Balthazar sneers.  “I know.  The last one I met wasn’t even wearing matching lingerie.”  Gabriel lets out a loud, exasperated noise and Balthazar adds, “And I saw the way he looked at you when you brought him over to that table, darling.  Like he wanted to smother you in chocolate syrup and-”

“I haven’t been on a date since-”

“Since Kali,” Balthazar interrupts.  “And ‘lick it off you.’  I was going to say ‘lick it off you.’”

Gabriel glares at him.  “No.”

“Oh, I’m quite positive.  He was giving you the same look you give mini éclairs.”

“I’ve been on dates since Kali,” Gabriel clarifies moodily, picking the umbrella back up and turning it in his fingers again.

Balthazar gives him an incredulous look.  “Name one human being you have so much as brushed hands with since Kali.”

Gabriel opens and closes his mouth, looking conflicted.  He finally rolls his eyes, turns his nose up, and informs Balthazar, “Sex gods don’t care about names.”

“No, but they do, occasionally, have sex,” Balthazar says patronizingly.  His expression softens a bit when he adds, “You’re damaged, Gabe.”

“Okay, great.  So we’ve established that this was a dumb conversation to begin with,” Gabriel exclaims before exhaling noisily and shoving his glass over to the bartender.  “I’ll take more vodka now.”

Balthazar tuts.  “I’m sorry, I can’t allow you to drink store inventory.”

Sam steps out of the shadows at the same moment Gabriel seems to decide to kill Balthazar, if his furious gaze means anything, but Sam’s appearance distracts the waiter from his murderous intents, drawing his wide eyes immediately.  Sam pretends to adjust his tools in his bag as if he’d just walked out of the kitchen and hadn’t over heard anything, and he doesn’t miss it when Gabriel’s shoulders fall a little in relief.  Sam does his best to look sort of pleasantly surprised when his eyes fall on Gabriel and Balthazar and he heads in their direction with a grin.

“I’d put a smile on if I were you, lover boy,” Balthazar says, far too loudly, and finally sets to polishing glasses, keeping all of his work confined to the other side of the bar.  Gabriel wrenches his neck to scowl at the retreating bartender before turning back to Sam with a roll of his eyes.  Sam just pretends to be confused and takes a seat on the empty bar stool beside him.

“You’re here late,” Gabriel greets him.  “Normally Balthazar and I end up locking up.”

“Just wanted to make sure my station was spotless.  I don’t need to give Lucifer another reason to hate me,” Sam explains, leaning one arm against the bar because he isn’t sure what to do with his hands.

“Lucifer doesn’t even need a reason,” Gabriel scoffs.

“I noticed.”

“So, how’d your first night go?  Do we get to keep you?” Gabriel asks, his voice all smoothness and self-assurance.  Sam catches the little glance the waiter sneaks at his empty glass, however, longing for the liquid comfort of another cocktail.

“I think I’ll stick around,” Sam confirms.  More seriously, he says, “Thank you for everything you did tonight.  I was losing it a little until you showed up.”

Gabriel brightens at that, his grin playful.  “Just doing my job.”

“You more than did your job,” Sam insists.  He wants to touch him, to put his hand over his hand or touch his arm, but he holds back, still not sure what’s too far, what’s crossing the line from flirting to bizarre.  “Michael even said he might let me play with the dessert menu.  I never would have had the guts to improvise or even mention my own recipes if it hadn’t been for you.”

Gabriel looks surprised, both at Sam’s words and the serious turn of the conversation, but he nods slowly, taking in that new information.  “Well, then… I’m happy for you.  Wow, we haven’t changed the dessert menu in years.”

“I’m excited about it,” Sam says.

“ _I’m_ excited about it,” Gabriel exclaims, smiling easier.  “If I could survive on just dessert, I’d probably eat cake, pudding, and Twix bars for every meal.  God, I hope we do a tasting.”

“Tell you what,” Sam says, suddenly feeling bold.  He plucks the umbrella from Gabriel’s hands and, ignoring the waiter’s indignant squawk, flattens the colorful paper against the bar.  Before he can lose his nerve, he pulls a pen out of the pocket of his coat and scrawls his number across the edge.  He shoves the pen back in his pocket, closes the umbrella, and, with more confidence than he feels, drops it back in Gabriel’s empty glass with a smile.  “Let me know if you want to do a private tasting.  I’ve got a pretty decked out kitchen.”

He stands to leave then, both to avoid forcing Gabriel to answer him and to shy away from the possibility of embarrassment.  He gets halfway to the door before dread starts to sink into his stomach.  He normally doesn’t have to come onto guys himself; they normally come to him.  It’s easier that way and the silence looming behind him drives him crazy.

Relief comes just before Sam’s ready to run back, apologize, and start quoting that no-dating policy Gabriel and Balthazar had been referencing earlier.

“Hey, Sam,” Gabriel calls after him, and Sam turns to see the smirk he remembers for earlier in the night, confidence and flirty and gorgeous.  “I don’t work lunches on Fridays.”

Sam grins lopsidedly.  “See you Friday then.”

And he does see him that Friday, and several Fridays after that.  On one particular Friday years later, Sam finally tells Gabriel that he overheard the conversation he’d been having with Balthazar and Gabriel tells him that he actually hadn’t heard any rave reviews about Sam’s desserts until Gabriel started pushing them on people.  They bicker over it for only a moment before Sam starts laughing freely and Gabriel grins a grin that is entirely confident and snarky, and they both decide that “for better or for worse” probably covers forgiveness of little white lies.


End file.
